


Six

by xCake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorder, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCake/pseuds/xCake
Summary: Bucky knew that there were more important things for him to worry about. Of course he did. He still had to work through the horrors of his past, never mind his present, which was the exact reason why he honed right in on your petty bullshit. You distracted him from the things he didn’t want to think about. You also drove him up a fucking wall.[ Bucky x Reader ]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan‘s Multi-Fandom Followers Challenge - ‘enemies to lovers’ trope.

James Buchanan Barnes couldn’t stand you. Or your generation.

‘Millennials’ they were called, ranging anywhere from 25 to 40, give or take a couple years. Boy, were they wasteful, entitled, and disrespectful – spoiled rotten by the children of _his_ generation. Where all of their parenting had gone wrong, he wasn’t sure, but it explained a hell of a lot about the world’s current state of affairs.

He knew that Steve didn’t like any of it either, but Steve wasn’t vocal about it; not that Bucky was vocal, of course, because he wasn’t.

Except for when you were involved.

The shitty attitude, he could handle. You griped constantly, so much that it grated on his last nerve after every mission. ‘Broke a nail’ this and ‘bled all over my new shirt’ that. No matter how good you were in the field, he loathed having to deal with you longer than necessary. You whined like a spoiled brat and it was exhausting.

He could also deal with the disrespect. Because your face was buried in your phone 24/7, you’d stumbled into him more than once in the hallway without offering so much as an apology – never mind the time that you very nearly got him shot because you forgot to put the stupid device on silent while the two of you were doing covert ops, or all the other times you interrupted him while he was talking to send off a text. Sometimes he thought you did it on purpose just to piss him off, but he let it slide.

What Bucky couldn’t stand was the wastefulness. Growing up during the Great Depression had taught him not let a single thing go to waste. In fact, he’d say it was downright shameful to do so. His outdated mentality on the subject was just as hard to grow out of as it was for him not to comment on it, and needless to say, he commented. A lot.

Shortly after Bucky moved into the compound, he went to the kitchen for some orange juice one morning and found you throwing away some wilted but perfectly edible produce. An argument ensued. He used up the remnants for breakfast, while you stormed out of the room.

That particular incident was what set the tone for your tumultuous relationship, if you could even call it that. You’d only met a week or two prior, and neither of you left a good impression on the other. He was still keyed up from his return to civilization. You were a victim of circumstance. In retrospect, he knew he shouldn’t have picked the fight, but he didn’t regret it in the least because your bad habits just continued on from there.

One afternoon, he found you stuffing your face with candy instead of eating the tub of yogurt you’d bought a month ago. Bucky knew it was about to go off because it sat there every day at eye level, unopened, with your name written on it in curly black marker, taunting him whenever he opened the fridge. As the expiration date neared, he told you more than once that he’d eat it if you weren’t going to. He’d quickly noticed what a picky eater you were – even though no one from _his _generation was picky like that – and in some way, he might have been trying to be nice.

More than that, though, it was his attempt at controlling the situation and with it, your wasteful behaviour. You saw right through it and another argument ensued, during which you told him to just eat the fucking thing and stop riding your ass about it. He ate the entire tub by the next morning. You never bought yogurt again.

After dinner one night, he caught you scraping most of your meal off your plate into the trash. He’d seen you pushing it around from the corner of his eye, picking at it like you didn’t have an appetite and maybe you didn’t. He assumed you’d pack it away for later like a normal person, but instead you threw it out. It resulted in yet another argument, and this one ended with hot, angry tears spilling down your cheeks right before you told him to go fuck himself for constantly hassling you about your eating habits.

That was about two weeks ago, and the two of you hadn’t talked since. It was the longest you’d gone without talking to each other over the six months or so since you met, during which you’d argued more times than he could count. Lately, though, you weren’t around much and neither was he. Too many missions. A blessing in disguise.

Bucky knew there were more important things for him to worry about. Of course he did. He still got nightmares, despite the weekly therapy he’d begrudgingly started to attend at Steve’s suggestion and Sam’s prodding. He still had to unpack and work through the horrors of his past, never mind his present.

Yes, there were more important things for him to worry about, which was the exact reason why he honed right in on the petty bullshit. It distracted him from the things he didn’t want to think about.

In some ways, you became his distraction.

When he first met you, he thought you were attractive – and to him, your body still was but Christ, did your personality drive him up a wall. There was never a shred of sexual tension between you and him because all that existed was just plain tension. The air was thick with it whenever you were in the same room, and your teammates were always prepared to break up whatever argument arose from the two of you being together for more than a minute.

While you picked a fight every now and then, it was usually him and, truth be told, Bucky didn’t really blame you for not liking him. He didn’t like himself much, either. He’d done more than enough terrible things for a lifetime or two. That was one reason why he was in therapy.

By comparison, this was minor. It was stupid. It was petty, but whenever you were around, every word out of his mouth was a criticism. He blamed it on the fact that out of everyone he worked with, you were by far the most obnoxious and you made no secret of your disdain for him. It was annoying. _You_ were annoying.

That said, the two of you somehow worked well together. On the battlefield, you listened to his orders without question. You respected him as a soldier, an ally. You did the job, and you did it well – usually. In the thick of it all, he actually _liked_ to be with you and if he was honest, he’d admit that liked the fire in your eyes when you covered him or returned fire. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t afford to be so honest. Not anymore.

The problem was that as soon as the fight was over, you were at each other’s throats all over again. All the excess adrenaline coursing through his veins and yours after a mission certainly didn’t help matters any, especially on the plane ride home, when tensions were high and him just looking at you wrong set you off. Or vice versa. 

It was only by pure luck that you hadn’t been paired up over the last two weeks.

He quickly discovered that that was a bad thing. A very bad thing. When you were finally paired up together for a mission, it went south very quickly due to your lack of communication. He wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have been and neither were you. Instead, you wound up being thrown against a wall where you smacked your head against brick and concrete and, for a moment, he thought the worst.

You didn’t regain consciousness for almost a week.

It wasn’t a pleasant time for Bucky. No, his nightmares were worse than ever because now he had you to add to his always-growing list of mistakes: his failure to protect you, to watch your six like you had his. He blamed himself for not trying to fix things sooner. He blamed himself for a lot of things. That was another reason why he was in therapy.

He wasn’t there when you woke up, but he arrived just in time to watch you yank the IV from your arm, snarling at the nurse not to touch you again. When the nurse saw him walk in, she looked relieved to see him, almost, like he’d be able to talk some sense into you.

Yeah, right.

You quickly pulled the bag of fluids hanging beside your bed and scanned it with frantic eyes, searching for something – he didn’t know what. All he knew was that it was unsettling to see you like this, so frazzled, so upset. Something was wrong.

“Hey, doll,” he said, taking a couple of cautious steps into the room, but you didn’t even seem to hear him. Normally you would have snapped at him over the casual address, but instead, you were talking to yourself.

“Six days,” you muttered, trying to do the math on your fingers, but it didn’t quite click. Your brain was a hazy mess, and unfortunately, you couldn’t remember much – just that you’d been knocked back into a wall and then – nothing. “Ten thousand?”

It wasn’t until you swore loudly that you realized Bucky was in the room. He was just the person you needed to see right now. Perfect.

“What do you want?” you asked, dropping the bag down onto the bed. Next to it lay the feeding tube the nurse had just very uncomfortably removed.

“You wanna tell me what all this,” he gestured to the bloody IV on the floor, “is about?”

“Not particularly,” you snarked. “I’m being discharged. Out of my way, Barnes.” 

As always, you drove him up a wall, but he was a little more forgiving this time. You’d just woken up from a coma. That was probably why your behaviour was so off. It made sense.

Instead of dignifying your attitude with a response, he just stepped aside and let you storm out into the hallway.

Still, he found himself trailing behind you – giving you your distance, but he also wanted to keep an eye on you for any other erratic behaviour. If you noticed that he was following you, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you signed some discharge papers at the nurse’s station, accepted a small pile of folded clothing – your torn uniform – and made your way to the elevator.

Bucky got in with you almost automatically. In fact, he hardly even realized it until his feet had already taken him there. He didn’t know why.

You eyed him suspiciously as he pressed the button to the ground floor, but he ignored you. The ride downstairs was silent and uncomfortable – tense as always – but your racing thoughts distracted you from it, fingernails tapping anxiously against the handrail in the elevator as it made its descent.

As terrible as you felt, you had to go to the gym. You had to burn off the ten thousand calories that had been pumped into your body over the last week. Needed to. It wasn’t optional.

“Sorry,” he said then, and you glanced over at him. He didn’t apologize often.

“For what?”

“I wasn’t covering you,” he responded, meeting your eyes for a moment before he looked away. There was a hint of shame there that you didn’t miss. “I should’ve had your six. You got hurt because I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Shit happens,” you told him, tone neutral, but some small part of you appreciated his apology – his honesty, even though it wasn’t his fault. You were the one who should have been paying more attention, but all you were focused on during the mission was burning off the calories you’d had at lunch. The fact that you and Bucky were in the middle of a rough patch at the time was the furthest thing on your mind.

Just like now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at that, and the conversation died out. Thankfully, the elevator finally reached the bottom floor just in time with a quiet ‘ding’.

You didn’t even look in his direction as you exited the elevator, planning to make a beeline for your room to get changed into more suitable clothing. The nightgown you were wearing – courtesy of medical – was comfortable, but not exactly good for exercising.

“You got someplace to be?”

You shot Bucky an irritated look and said like it was obvious, “The gym.”

“You just got out of medical—”

“Let it _go_, Barnes,” you called over your shoulder.

Thankfully, he did let it go.

You made it to your room in the neighbouring building just fine, but the moment you shut the door behind you, your calm demeanour was replaced with panic. How the hell were you supposed to burn off ten thousand calories? You were going to be at the gym all night.

* * *

And you were.

In the end, you were at the gym for hours. The sun was shining high in the sky when you were released from the medical ward, and now it was dark. A quick check of your watch showed that it was a little after eight o’clock.

By this point, you’d done a half hour on every single cardio machine in the gym: treadmills, ellipticals, a random stair climber that never got used, then spin bikes when your back started to hurt from being on your feet for so long.

Now that your legs were thoroughly fatigued, you were putting your arms to work with a punching bag. Boxing still required some leg work, of course, but your wrapped knuckles were catching the brunt of it.

In between the bursts of cardio, you were going to the bathroom and weighing yourself after, not that it made much of a difference – not even half a pound. With all the exercise, you wound up drinking far too much water, so now you were peeing out the difference. As soon as you finished pulling your sweaty leggings back up, you already felt like you had to go again. It was a special brand of hell.

You’d just returned to the heavy bag and landed a couple of unsteady punches when you realized you weren’t alone. Bucky was here, now. Of course he was.

Over the past few hours, some of your teammates had come through. Steve and Sam came in to train together, and were pleasantly surprised to find that you were finally up and at ‘em again. Clint grinned at you and gave you a thumbs-up. Natasha was glad to see that you were already feeling well enough for some cardio.

Except you weren’t feeling well enough at all. You were ready to puke. Truth be told, you’d been feeling like that for a while, but you held it back because you needed to burn off the calories. With a conservative estimate, you’d maybe only burned a third of the ten thousand.

Just a third.

“You feeling alright?”

Bucky’s hand was gentle on your sweaty shoulder and you jumped, very nearly losing your footing. You knew your body was a bit more sluggish, now, but your reaction time was embarrassingly slow.

You shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he told you.

“So what?” you snapped at him. “Why do you even care? You didn’t during the mission.”

That was a low blow, and you knew it. He’d already apologized, for one, and for two, it wasn’t his fault to begin with. It was yours.

When Bucky’s jaw tensed, you turned back to the heavy bag in front of you, refusing to meet his eyes again.

You hated always being so nasty to him, but only he could inspire such a rise out of you. You weren’t sure why. The two of you got on like water and oil, constantly arguing about stupid, petty bullshit. The arguments usually happened when you were at your worst: cranky from a lack of food or angry with yourself for an abundance of it. Sometimes, he got a bug up his ass about your eating habits, and that was what really set you off. It was a sensitive topic. You despised talking about it because that just stressed you out even more, so much that every now and then it made you cry.

Of course, he’d never seen any of that until a couple of weeks ago.

The punches you landed were weak and pathetic, let alone not where you’d been aiming at all. That may have had something to do with how spotty your vision was – like a runner’s high times a thousand. You blamed it on your own lack of focus and discipline, but you knew deep down that it was because your body desperately needed to rest. Either that, or it needed some real sustenance, not liquid calories from a feeding tube.

You leaned a hand against the heavy bag to steady yourself from the sudden dizzy spell, but it didn’t help much. Your body pitched forward anyway.

“Hey,” came Bucky’s voice, then – soft and soothing. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

His arms were around you, one hard and unyielding under the sleeve of his sweatshirt, but he was warm – so warm and gentle and you found yourself leaning into him, dazed and half-conscious. Your vision was spottier than ever, almost black. You weren’t sure if it was because your eyes were closed or you were dreaming. Maybe a mixture of both.

Then, a split second later, you were blinking up at your bedroom ceiling.

Bucky was there; he’d pulled your desk chair over to your bedside and was sitting in it, thumbing through one of your books. When you shifted, he looked up from the novel to you.

“What the hell,” you muttered under your breath, slowly pulling yourself up to a seated position. When had you made it back to your bedroom? And for that matter, what was _he_ doing here? With one of your favourite books, no less.

“You fainted,” he explained so simply that it set you off.

“I didn’t _faint_,” you argued, more for the sake of arguing than anything else. You didn’t faint like a pathetic damsel in distress. That wasn’t something that you did. “I was doing cardio, and then…”

His brows raised expectantly.

You crossed your arms in a huff. “And then I ended up here.”

“Sounds like you fainted to me, but what do I know,” he said dryly – teasing, almost, but you weren’t on good enough terms for that. “I mean, you sure were dead weight for someone who was still conscious.”

“What?” you asked stupidly.

He carried you here? That was bad enough, but what’s worse was that he said you were heavy. He was a super soldier; you definitely shouldn’t have been too heavy, but you had been eating worse than usual lately and you probably put on an extra few pounds whilst in medical—

“Christ, would you calm down? I’m kidding,” he interrupted your anxious thoughts and you realized, then, that they must have shown on your face.

When you met his eyes and saw that gorgeous pale blue so up close, you briefly forgot what you were panicking about to begin with. You’d always loved his eyes, despite how often the two of you were at each other’s throats. They were just about the only thing you liked about him.

Whatever fleeting appreciation you may have had disappeared in an instant when he added, “You know I’m gonna have to take you back to medical if you push yourself too hard again.”

You frowned. “I didn’t push myself too hard, I was working off—”

Then you cut yourself off and chewed your lip. You almost said too much. He wouldn’t get why your head was so fucked up because, honestly, even _you_ didn’t get it. How could you expect someone else to?

“You were working off what?”

You glanced at him and found that he genuinely seemed like he wanted to know. Actual curiosity, and possibly a hint of concern played out on his features as he studied your face.

Well, if he wanted to know so badly, then you’d tell him. Maybe then he’d finally leave you alone. Good riddance.

“The calories,” you mumbled, feeling even stupider after saying it out loud.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“The calories,” you repeated a bit more clearly. “Medical force-fed me while I was out.”

“Why does that matter?” he asked far too seriously for your liking. “You’re lucky you’re not brain dead.”

You bristled at the way he brushed off your concerns so casually. “What, like you?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, offering a glimpse of exactly how patient he was trying to be with you. “Look, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You’re obviously just fine,” there was a little bite to his tone as he got to his feet, then, “so I’m gonna go.”

Well, now you felt bad.

“Shit, Barnes, wait—”

You didn’t realize you’d actually reached out for him until your fingers embedded in the thick fabric of his shirt sleeve. He stared at your hand on his metal forearm for a moment before he turned his eyes up to yours, looking every bit as unsettled as you felt. 

You immediately let him go and started picking at a very interesting piece of lint on your duvet, doing your best to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks. “Sorry. Thanks for, you know, caring.”

He scoffed a little at that, to which you hesitantly looked over at him again only to find that he’d flopped right back down into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Someone has to. You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” you sassed. “I can really feel the love.”

Despite your bristly demeanour, and his, you felt the corners of your lips turn up all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning after The Incident (because you were still too proud to admit that you actually _fainted_), you decided to make him breakfast as a thank you. Despite all of your issues with the end result, you found it relaxing to cook. Therapeutic, almost. Like nothing was wrong with you.

It also felt nice to do something good for another person. Dopamine was in short supply, and you were running on fumes and misery.

You’d just started plating everything up when Bucky came into the kitchen, right on time. Another sleepless night by the looks of it, too. It certainly didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he never slept well. Not only were there always dark circles under his eyes, but you knew how much he tossed and turned. You'd witnessed it firsthand during the handful of times the two of you had shared a motel room. Of course, the fact that you usually spat nasty words at each other well into the early hours of the morning never helped matters any.

At some point, however, some small part of you had started to feel bad for him. You weren’t sure when – probably sometime after you read his file and found out what, exactly, he’d been through.

Maybe Bucky needed the dopamine, too.

Glancing over at him from the stove, you offered a casual, “Morning, Barnes.”

The surprise at your choice to strike up a conversation was evident on his face, but only for a split second; then he seemed just as casual as you. “Morning.”

That was when you started to have second thoughts about the whole ghastly affair. You’d never gotten along with him before, so why were you trying now? But you shoved the too-full plate at him anyway, before you could change your mind. It was piled high with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast – enough to feed an army, or maybe just a super soldier, and he gave you a wary look.

“For yesterday,” you explained. When he hesitated, you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t poison it. I’m not an amateur. Here.”

Then you held it out a bit more pointedly as if to say, _See, I’m not a complete fuck-up. I can be nice._

His eyes searched yours for a moment or two until he finally took the plate from you with an awkward, “Uh, thanks.”

Unsurprisingly, he set it down on the table at his usual seat, where you’d already laid out a fork and napkin. Even though the two of you had been in a perpetual state of arguing for the last six months, you knew him well enough. Not only did Bucky Barnes never waste food – especially not a home-cooked meal – but he liked routine. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he needed it, but even you could tell that it helped him adjust.

What caught you off guard was that he didn’t sit just yet. Instead he stood there, unsurely, watching as you pulled a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. As unnerving as that was, you somehow managed to fill up two glasses without spilling a drop.

Then you spared another glance up at him as you screwed the lid back onto the bottle. When you caught him staring, he quickly looked away.

“What?” you asked in exasperation, putting the bottle back into the fridge.

“You just… You look better today. I’m glad.”

At that, you nearly dropped the glasses as you made your way to the table. Thankfully, he seemed to miss it, finally having taken a seat.

He was glad. How on earth could he be? He couldn’t stand you.

“Thank you,” you said a little too haughtily, setting his glass down in front of him before you sat down on the other side, putting a proverbial distance in between you both – but not even a sip of orange juice could alleviate the sudden dryness in your throat.

He nodded to the glass in your hand. “Is that all you’re having?”

“I’m not a breakfast person.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it did kill the conversation.

The silence that befell the two of you certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, either. Neutral. For once, the two of you weren’t fighting and it hadn’t taken a battlefield to get either of you to cooperate.

It was actually kind of nice.

Taking another sip, you gazed out the window as he quietly worked on the too-large meal you made. If nothing else, he’d always had an appetite and you secretly envied the way he could eat so much and not gain a pound. It made you wish you were normal. As it was, having juice instead of water was enough to stress you out. 

The day was beautiful, you found, nice and sunny and if you didn’t feel like you’d been hit by a train, you would have gone for a run to enjoy the weather – and to burn off the calories from your liquid breakfast.

Of course, what you were really worried about was where to go from here. You’d hinted at things yesterday that you’d never told anyone else, and you weren’t exactly sure what to do or even how to talk to him. It was _him_, after all. Bucky Barnes. Your worst enemy.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he began carefully, almost like you'd take offense, drawing your attention away from the lovely weather, “but you didn’t have to do this.”

In the muted sunlight, his eyes were truly stunning: a gorgeous pale blue, just like the cloudless sky outside. There was an unrecognizable flutter in your chest – appreciation, perhaps – to which you responded more dryly than intended, “I know I didn’t _have_ to. I wanted to.”

“Why?” he asked. There it was again: his curiosity. This time, however, he seemed a little suspicious, too. It made sense. You weren’t exactly a friend.

For a moment, you weren’t really sure what to say. Was it a peace offering? Possibly. It was also a thank you; you’d already said as much. You were more for grand gestures than words. Not that cooking breakfast was a grand gesture, of course, but the sentiment was the same.

So you shrugged. “You carried me up to my room. Couldn’t have been easy.”

His stupid comment that you’d been dead weight had been stuck on a loop in your mind since yesterday. It bothered you, but you’d never admit it, especially not to him.

Bucky paused, fork in mid-air, to study your face again – unsettling, just like before. You felt like he could see right through you, something he only further proved by asking point-blank, “Is that why you’re not eating?”

You immediately tensed. “What?”

“You’re light as a feather, doll. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

If nothing else, Bucky Barnes certainly didn’t mince words. That had always been one thing you couldn’t stand about him, not to mention the exact reason why you were always on the defensive. He was also far too observant for your liking.

This time, however, it didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

You let out a noncommittal hum in response, resting your chin on your hand as you peered back out at the clear sky. Although you’d spoken the words a hundred times before, the lack of malice in your tone felt unfamiliar – almost warm. “Not your doll, Barnes.”

* * *

To say that the next few days were tedious would have been an understatement.

You’d been relegated to desk duty for an indiscriminate amount of time while you underwent tests and scans in the medical ward. Just because you’d been discharged didn’t mean that they were done with you. You did have a concussion, after all, and Dr. Cho wanted to make absolutely sure you were fit for field duty before she signed on the dotted line.

So far, she wasn’t convinced – especially because you’d lost five pounds since your hospital stay and, if you were being honest, you were in pretty rough shape. Unfortunately, you weren’t an honest person. You kept your troubles bottled up inside until they spilled over in the form of a too-hot temper, which you hadn’t had the opportunity to exercise lately.

It certainly didn’t help that Bucky was nowhere to be found. He’d left for a mission shortly after having breakfast with you, and he hadn’t been back since. Normally you’d enjoy the peace and quiet and lack of bullshit, but you just felt anxious. You didn’t like it.

Filing papers and typing up emails was boring, and your thoughts kept drifting back to him, wondering where he was and when he’d be back. It wasn’t like it was classified information – well, it was, but you had a clearance – and eventually you looked it up because you just needed to know. You weren’t sure why. Curiosity, maybe.

He was in Belgium.

You’d been there once before on one of your first missions, with him, Steve, and Natasha. On the flight home, you binged on so many Belgian truffles that you made yourself sick. Didn’t eat again for a full month after that.

It looked like his mission was pretty run-of-the-mill: extraction and interrogation. Shouldn’t have taken more than a day or two, but now it had been nearly a week. At least he was with Sam and Clint, but it must have gotten hairy if they weren’t back yet.

You probably would have been sent along too if you were in any condition for it. You didn’t like that, either. Not being out in the field made you feel like you were wasting your time.

Needless to say, you weren’t taking well to desk duty. You were going stir crazy, as a matter of fact. You liked to be active, not just because it burned calories but because it was cathartic. You enjoyed getting out and about, going for a run just to enjoy the tranquillity of nature surrounding the compound. A hundred acres to explore, and you were trapped indoors with your anxious thoughts.

“Steve,” you whined, using your feet to push off the floor and roll your chair over to his desk. “Isn’t there anything else I can do? I’ve just about typed my fingers off.”

“Not my problem,” Steve responded automatically, still focusing on the paperwork in front of him. It certainly wasn’t the first time you whined to him, but his patience had no bounds.

You groaned. “Then can I have a half day? I hate this. I hate being stuck in here when I could be out doing something useful.”

At that, Steve finally looked up from his paperwork to you.

You knew you sounded like a spoiled child, but you really did hate it. Filing was useful, of course it was, but your skills were better suited to the field and you felt well enough to go on missions again. Dr. Cho was just being difficult.

While you couldn’t manipulate your doctor, Steve was easy – all you had to do was pout and he’d give right in, the big softie that he was.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he said exasperatedly, and you jumped up from the chair in excitement.

“Thank you! I’ll make up my time tomorrow.”

“Go on, get out of here.” He gestured to the door, almost shooing you out. “Enjoy the weather for me.”

“Will do,” you called over your shoulder.

It wasn’t a secret that you liked to run.

* * *

And, of course, that was exactly what you did.

You finally returned to the compound around dusk, after your legs were once again thoroughly fatigued. Because of your stupid behaviour after being released from medical, you hadn’t been able to exercise much over the last few days. Your body was too sore.

Thankfully, you were in much better spirits now. Runner’s high may have contributed to that.

Wiping your face with the small towel around your shoulders, you jogged your way up the stairs to your bedroom, attempting to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of your stomach growling. You couldn’t allow yourself to eat, not when you still hadn’t burned off those ten thousand calories from days ago. You’d barely eaten since, and the fact that you’d already lost some weight had no impact on your resolve. There was always more weight to lose. 

On the floor in front of your bedroom door was a small brown box tied with gold string, one you recognized immediately.

Belgian truffles.

_Fuck._

Even just seeing the box made you nauseous because you knew what it contained. Well, you couldn’t just leave it there as tempted as you were to do so – so you picked it up, and noticed a small yellow post-it attached:

> _Thanks for breakfast._

There was something about Bucky’s messy handwriting that made your heart warm, but your thoughts were already focused on something else entirely. Even if Bucky _had_ remembered that you liked these particular truffles, and even if it _was_ incredibly sweet of him to bring some back for you, it set you off all the same. He didn’t know that they’d triggered a binge the last time. Of course he didn’t. You didn’t share your eating troubles with anyone, especially not him.

Not that it mattered.

Your runner’s high was gone in an instant, replaced with stupid, irrational, uncontrollable panic. You couldn’t have these here. You’d eat them. You’d eat all of them in five fucking minutes. You’d shovel them into your mouth like a maniac, and then you’d get sick all over again. Each one had to be at least a hundred calories, and there were twelve of them.

The walk to his room was brisk, punctuated by swear words muttered under your breath. With each step, you only got more and more irritated. He hadn’t even signed his name. How arrogant. It was obviously from him, but that didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that you needed them _gone_.

You were pounding on the door to his bedroom before you even realized it, palm hard and unyielding against the wood. “Open up, Barnes. I swear to god, if you don’t open this god damned door—”

Predictably, it opened, and you came face-to-face with those gorgeous blue eyes of his – but there was no time for appreciation, not now.

“Take it back.”

Then you shoved the box out towards him.

Bucky glanced down at it for a moment before he looked back up at you in confusion. Your face was flushed, but it wasn’t because you were happy. Far from it. You were angry.

Why?

“It’s for you,” he said blankly. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I don’t want it,” you spat, voice full of vitriol. Now that certainly wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but it still took him by surprise. “Take it back.” 

Hadn’t you liked those truffles the last time? His memory wasn’t exactly the greatest after, well, everything, but he could distinctly recall you eating a whole box of them – a whole box that looked just like that one. He remembered it because of how happy you’d been at the time. That was always a rare sight for him, because all he ever managed to do was upset you - sometimes intentionally, but usually not.

Just like now.

“Why don't you want it?” he asked, still not quite understanding. If it was anyone else, he’d probably have taken offense, but it was _you_ and nothing you ever did made a lick of sense to him. This was just another example of it.

Even still, there was a certain look in your eyes that unsettled him. Panic. He’d seen it before, usually whenever he got on your case about wasting food, but he’d seen it that night at the gym, too. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong when you looked like this, but he could never figure out why.

Then you spoke so quietly, he might have missed it if his senses weren’t enhanced. “Just take it back. _Please_.”

The way your voice broke on the last word was what prompted him to take the box from you, hesitant, unsure. He didn’t know why you didn’t want it, but it bothered him. It always bothered him when you were like this, especially when he was the cause. Any other time, he understood enough; you hated to be nagged about things, and he got on your case pretty frequently.

This time, however, he didn’t have a clue. 

“Thank you,” you told him, and spun around on your heel to leave – but his free hand caught your wrist. Your skin was so hot to the touch against cool vibranium and he realized, then, how delicate you actually were. Your wrist was so small that his fingers overlapped quite a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that, somehow, he’d offended you. Was it because he was the one who gave it to you?

That was when you offered him the ghost of a smile, one that made his heart ache just a little. You never smiled at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Bucky. This is all me.”

If he didn’t do anything wrong, then why—?

“I appreciate it,” you continued, pausing to worry your lower lip in between your teeth. “Really, I do. I’ve just… I’ve got some issues. Nothing worth talking about.” 

And if he didn’t know the feeling. That was exactly how he felt whenever he went to therapy.

“You’re upset.” The way he said it wasn’t accusatory, but gentle. “Isn’t that worth talking about?”

At that, you snorted derisively and pulled your wrist free. “Not with you.”

Now _that _pissed him off. It must have shown on his face, because you immediately grimaced. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I mean…” You looked away, chewing your lip some more. Nervous energy. He knew it well. “You’ve been through a lot. My problems are pretty stupid compared to that.”

His tone held a slight note of annoyance. “It’s not a competition, doll.”

When your eyes met his again, he noticed that you seemed a little less panicked, a little more… open, if he could even call it that. So he took a calculated risk.

“I’ll listen.” When you tensed up at the suggestion, he quickly added, “If you want.”

You were considering it; he could see it on your face plain as day. And then, just as easily, he watched you make up your mind, watched you put your walls right back up like they’d never been down to begin with.

“Maybe another time,” you told him with another rueful smile.

“Sure,” he replied, but he wasn’t sure at all.

As he watched you walk away, for the first time all he wanted to do was help you. He just didn’t know how. 

Later that night, he received a text from you. He rarely received any, let alone from you and on the rare occasion you did message him, it always pertained to a mission. This one didn’t.

> _Thanks for remembering._


	3. Chapter 3

The work week continued to drag on, and predictably, Steve didn’t give you any extra time off no matter how much you wished for it. On top of that, you had to make up your time from Tuesday, but that was fine. You finally had something to keep your thoughts occupied. In between the emails and filing, you started to wonder what Bucky’s ulterior motive was. He wouldn’t have just bought you something for no reason, would he? He couldn’t stand you, just like you couldn’t stand him.

Right?

Deep down, you knew that was a lie. He was starting to grow on you. He’d _remembered_ – and even though you made him take the truffles back, he didn’t seem offended by it at all. He just wanted to know why. It may have been his version of an olive branch, just like breakfast had been yours.

And, well, you knew him. As much as the two of you didn’t get along, you knew that he was an honest person. He’d always been honest, maybe to a fault sometimes. You used to hate that about him, but now… now you kind of didn’t.

It was sweet.

_He_ was sweet.

At least, that was what you thought until dinner on Thursday night. Around the table sat Sam, Bucky, and Natasha; everyone else was on a mission and for that, you were grateful. Fewer eyes meant less of a chance that someone would notice you weren’t eating.

Conversation was light and breezy, what with the boys discussing the mission they’d just returned from a couple of days prior. Normally you would have been interested, but you didn’t want to know anything about it because you were still stuck on desk duty. You already felt pretty useless as it was, and hearing about the mess they’d found themselves in made you feel even worse. If Dr. Cho wasn’t so stubborn, you could have been there. You could have helped.

Resting your chin on your hand, you pushed around the food on your plate but made no attempt to eat it. Sam had made his mother’s famous meatloaf, which was delicious enough for, well, meatloaf. You had a bite here and there to appease your cramping stomach, but you couldn’t make yourself eat more than that even though you desperately needed to.

Then a foot gently nudged yours under the table, and you glanced up to find Bucky looking at you with his head tilted just slightly to the side, concern evident on his face as he whispered, “You’re still not eating?”

You immediately bristled at the sensitive topic, unable to keep the bite out of your tone when you quietly responded, “I’m not hungry.”

The last thing you needed was for anyone else to pick up on your fucked-up eating habits. The fact that Bucky already had was bad enough, and, quite frankly, it was irritating that he was _still _getting on your case about it. You couldn’t even have a glass of juice without him asking questions, let alone a meal.

“Not a dinner person either, then?”

His question was innocent enough, but you bristled anyway. He just wouldn’t leave it alone. You loudly dropped your fork onto your plate, metal clattering against china right before you shoved your chair back from the table. “I _said_ I’m not hungry.”

Another day, another argument. Nothing had changed at all.

“I think I’m gonna take that as an insult,” Sam teased in a clear attempt to diffuse the situation, nodding to your full plate.

You knew that he was just joking, but the smile you offered him was tight-lipped and tense. “It’s good, Sam. I’m just not hungry anymore, thanks to _some_one.”

Then you shot Bucky another look, clearly blaming your lack of appetite on him. It wasn’t his fault, and you knew that, but you needed an excuse – needed someone to blame because you felt guilty for wasting Sam’s efforts. It wasn’t often that any of you had a nice home-cooked meal. With everyone’s weird hours and all the last-minute missions, takeout was far more common around the compound.

Unsurprisingly, your accusation set Bucky off. “What the hell did I do? I just asked—”

“I know what you asked,” you interrupted, crossing your arms. “Take a hint, Barnes. Stop asking.”

“How can I?” He pulled himself to his feet, too, blue eyes heated on yours. “You look even worse now than when you passed out, and you think I’m just gonna ignore that?”

“You passed out?” Natasha asked, brows raised, looking over from Bucky to you. “When?”

You grit your teeth. “A week ago. I’m _fine_.”

“Bullshit, you’re fine.” Bucky came around to your side of the table, then, but you somehow stood your ground despite his barrage of questions. “Why aren’t you back in the field? Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Why are you still on desk duty? Medical haven’t cleared you yet, have they?”

Why hadn’t you ever noticed how tall he was until now?

“That’s none of your fucking business,” you spat, feeling your face flush – but whether it was from anger or embarrassment, you weren’t sure.

Even you could hear the frustration in his voice when he spoke again, “Sure it is. You make me breakfast one day, scream at me the next, and now you wanna blame me for whatever’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours. The hell’s your problem?”

You always knew when you managed to rile him up because his accent came out – and sure enough, there it was. You used to get some sick sort of pleasure out of it, because once upon a time you _enjoyed_ pissing him off. Not now, you didn’t. Now, it bothered you to know that you had, and what’s worse was that you hated feeling this way.

This was Bucky Barnes. Your enemy. The one person you absolutely could not stand.

Right?

Those annoying thoughts were what prompted you to shove him hard in the shoulder, hissing, “You’re my problem!”

“Okay, okay, let’s all calm down,” Sam smoothly intervened, stepping between the two of you just like he’d done so many times in the past. Natasha was behind you, too, ready to step in if required. They’d broken up your arguments so many times, you’d long lost count.

You and Bucky glared at each other for another moment or two before you turned heel and stormed out of the room, bitter and angry and on the verge of tears. He just wouldn’t let it go.

He _never_ let it go.

When you started up the stairs, a sob escaped you – one that only Bucky could hear.

* * *

He found you a little while later on the rooftop.

That was where you usually went to cool down after a fight, a fact that Bucky only knew because he liked to go there, too. The fresh air calmed him, made him feel a little more grounded. In contrast, the starry sky was a gentle reminder that he was just a drop in the ocean in the grand scheme of things.

This, too, would pass, just like everything else.

Even in the moonlight, he could see that your eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. That was the exact reason he came up here tonight. The last time he made you cry, he never really had a chance to apologize. No, that was a lie. He had plenty of chances, but he chose not to, and as a result he’d nearly gotten you killed.

Not this time.

What surprised him was that he found you journaling. He’d never thought of you as an introspective person, because he’d always been too focused on what was on the surface: shallow, self-serving behaviour that drove him up a wall. It still did, but in recent days he’d started to believe otherwise. Sometimes you were tolerable, maybe even kind.

Judging by the hasty scribbling of your pen right now, though, you were still angry. That wasn’t a surprise.

After a quiet few moments, you stopped writing. “What do you want?”

The way Bucky approached you was hesitant, almost reluctant. He didn’t know what to say. Food was clearly a sensitive topic for you, a theory he’d tested tonight at dinner. Whenever the two of you argued in recent days, it was always about food – or the lack thereof, and when he really thought about it, he hadn’t seen you eat a full meal in weeks.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” was what he finally settled on. It was the truth.

At that, you glanced up from your journal and studied him for a second or two. He might have found it unnerving, had he not been so blindsided by the look on your face – complete exhaustion, like you were tired of fighting.

He was too. Six months of it was more than enough.

Then you turned back to your journal. The act was dismissive, almost, but your tone was entirely too quiet, too honest for a dismissal. “Well, you did.” 

Bucky knew he did. The difference was that you weren’t usually this honest with him about it. He certainly wasn’t proud of the way he reacted to your stupid accusation. Personal attacks weren’t his style, but he’d gone right for the jugular about your desk duty. He knew that it would be a sore spot because of how much you enjoyed field work, and he went there anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he acquiesced, and he meant it.

Even still, he was concerned for your welfare. Your reaction tonight told him everything he needed to know: that Dr. Cho really _hadn’t_ signed off on your return to the field. Bucky had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the fact that you weren’t eating, not that it was any of his business because you were right; it wasn’t.

“Do you want to know why I didn’t want those truffles?” you asked suddenly, focusing not on him but on your pen as you rolled it back and forth in between your fingertips. He’d noticed a long time ago that you had a tendency to fidget with things when you were nervous.

Why were you nervous?

“If you want to tell me,” he responded carefully.

Chewing on your lower lip, you pat the spot next to you on the blanket: an invitation to sit.

Bucky swallowed thickly as he took a seat beside you, doing his best to ignore the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Not only had he never seen you quite like this, but it felt strangely intimate to enter your space like this. The two of you weren’t friends, but you wanted him to join you anyway.

The strangest thing was that he didn’t mind at all.

You sat in silence for a little while, drumming your fingers on the hard cover of your journal – and then you leaned back on your hands to peer up at the starry sky. “Hey, have you ever heard the term ‘eating disorder’?”

A simple, “No,” was his reply. That was the truth, too.

The small, wistful smile you offered him made his heart ache.

“Makes sense. If I was around in the 40’s, I’d probably be in an asylum,” you told him, before you snorted derisively, like that was meant to be a joke. Even he could tell that it wasn’t really. “Basically, uh… I have some trouble with eating, yeah? So whenever you bring it up, I freak out a little. Sometimes more than a little.”

Well, that explained a _lot_.

“I’m so sorry, doll,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know.”

The gentle tone he used with you made you want to cry – and as a matter of fact, it did. Your vision quickly blurred with tears, and you hugged your knees to your chest, feeling entirely too vulnerable. You weren’t even sure why you were telling him this. It wasn’t like he cared.

Right?

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” you sniffled, hugging your legs just a little tighter. “This is my fault, not yours.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” His hand gently came to rest on your shoulder, and although you could sense the hesitation in his touch, it quickly disappeared when you didn’t pull away. “We all have problems. What matters is how we deal with them.”

Through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, his hand was large and warm as it trailed down your back, and up again – gentle strokes meant to comfort. It wasn’t often that you were treated so kindly, and by Bucky, no less.

Somehow, you didn’t mind it.

When you chanced another look over at him, his eyes were soft on yours and so stunning in the moonlight that you found yourself wanting to make amends – maybe even wanting to be friends.

“Nice pep talk,” you teased with a watery smile. “I think Steve’s rubbing off on you.”

At that, he laughed. You’d never heard him laugh before, not really, but you loved the sound of it. Even with everything he’d been through, you were kind of awestruck that he still managed to see the humour in things. 

“How do you know I’m not the one rubbing off on him?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “_Please_. This is Steve we’re talking about.”

When you saw those lovely blue eyes of his twinkling with amusement, there was another unrecognizable flutter in your chest. He didn’t say anything in response; just continued to stroke your back as you rubbed away the tears and snot from your face, probably smearing your makeup but you didn’t care. This was Bucky, after all.

Well, maybe you did care. 

A little.

“God, I’m a mess,” you muttered, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “Sorry. Here I am spilling my life’s story to you, and you’re too nice to tell me you don’t care.”

His hand stopped, then, and you looked over at him, about to apologize for the umpteenth time over how abrasive that sounded – but he just offered you the slightest hint of a smile and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The pleasant feeling of his fingers against your flushed cheek made your heart race.

“I do care,” he told you, before he slowly brought his hand back to his side.

For some reason, you found yourself missing his touch.

“Why?” you asked stupidly.

He shrugged, before he countered your question with one of his own. “Why do you have trouble eating?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, laying down on the blanket for a better view of the sky – a distraction. “My therapist used to say it’s all about control, but I don’t know. Haven’t been in awhile.”

Control. He could definitely empathize. “Why not?”

“I didn’t want to get, uh… What’s the term? 4-F’d?”

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at that, too – a genuine laugh, and for the first time, you laughed along with him. The sound of it warmed his heart, but that warmth quickly faded away as the somber reality of your situation sank in. You didn’t want to stop working in the field. What he’d dredged up at dinner ran deeper than he could have imagined.

“I shouldn’t have asked about medical,” he admitted. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

“Sure it is. I got hurt on a mission with you.”

Bucky frowned and looked away. His guilt was still there. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he’d been paying more attention. You _shouldn’t_ have gotten hurt – but because of him, you had, just like all the others over the last seventy-odd years.

He tensed up when your small hand came to rest on his arm, but the kindness behind it made him feel at ease, especially when you echoed his own words from earlier, “We all have our problems, Bucky. Stop blaming yourself, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

That was something he’d learned in therapy, but never had it sounded so… right.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time you grudgingly pulled yourself out of bed, it was well after ten o’clock and you felt like death. Your body ached, and your stomach was in knots because you spent most of the night ruminating about the things you’d confessed to Bucky – things you’d never told another person before.

Why?

What made this particular Friday even worse was that you ran into him in the hallway as you made your way downstairs. With a nervous smile, you asked him how his day was going, but it just went downhill from there. An awkward, tense conversation with a man more standoffish than usual made things incredibly unpleasant.

You’d opened up to him last night, possibly even _bonded_ a little, but now he didn’t want anything to do with you. What an idiot you’d been, but it made sense. Of course he didn’t. Bucky had his own problems. He didn’t need yours added to the mix, especially considering how stupid and small they were in comparison.

So, predictably, you went for a run to clear your head, and you pushed your body harder than you should have, so much that you collapsed halfway through. 

Weak.

Your body was still so weak, over a week later.

You hated it.

Chest heaving, you struggled to pull yourself up into a seated position and finally came to lean against the closest tree, rough bark biting into your back.

Such a sunny day, you noticed, despite the dark shadows clouding your mind. You couldn’t enjoy it at all.

With your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, your vision started to blur as you peered up at the bright blue sky, consciousness fading away with the autumn breeze.

* * *

The smell of cigarette smoke made your nose wrinkle.

“Come on, doll, wake up.”

Soft – almost like a dream.

_Come on, pretty girl. Wake up for me._

One gentle pat to your cheek, then another. A grumble, but no dice.

Bucky muttered under his breath, “How long have you been out here, darlin’? You’re ice cold.”

_Darlin’. Pretty girl. Wake up for me._

Too-hot fingers gently tugged you up off the ground, and then came a distinct feeling of weightlessness, one that had you finally jerking awake. Heart pounding, eyes wild, you blinked blearily up at Bucky, almost like he’d burned you – and in a way, he had. For a few seconds, you were disoriented, unsure of what was real and what wasn’t. 

Then you spotted the lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You’re smoking,” you said dumbly.

The cigarette was what you focused on, because you couldn’t handle how good it felt to be held like this, held by him. Not only were you starved for food, but also for touch and right now, his body felt like a radiator.

Unimpressed, Bucky replied, “You’re freezing.”

This marked the second time he’d rescued you from yourself.

It was dusk, now, you realized, pink and purple sky giving way to black. You must have been asleep for hours – asleep or unconscious, you weren’t really sure anymore. Then again, you weren’t really sure you even _cared _anymore.

“Put me down,” you rasped, throat far too dry for comfort. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

Bucky clearly didn’t believe you judging by the skeptical look on his face, but he gently set you back down upon unsteady feet. The second he pulled away from you, a cool breeze rustled through the trees and you shivered.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you shook your head before he could even start – as if to reiterate that you were fine. The way you briskly rubbed your arms to warm yourself up said otherwise.

_Pretty girl._

Not pretty at all. You must have looked terrible.

“Did you—” you started to ask, but when he met your eyes, the words died in your throat. He’d never call you that, not in a million years. It was a dream through and through, you were sure of it, and now you needed a distraction from how much it bothered you that it was just a dream. “Why are you smoking all the way out here?”

All alone. 

At least, until he came across you.

Bucky paused to take a drag from his nearly-finished cigarette, and then he dropped it to the ground, putting out the ember with the toe of his boot. “Promise me you’ll talk to Dr. Cho, and I’ll tell you.”

You scoffed. “I said I’m _fine_, Bucky. It was a nice day. I took a nap.”

“It doesn’t take normal people five minutes to wake up from a nap, you know.”

That set you off.

“I’m _not_ normal, Bucky,” you snapped. “Or did you already forget our what we talked about last night?”

A conversation that he acted like hadn’t even happened this morning.

The minute the nasty question escaped your mouth, however, you knew you’d made a mistake by the way Bucky’s eyes lit up like blue fire – icy hot and burning right through you.

“Of course I didn’t forget,” he spat, his patience clearly drawing thin. “You think I _wanted_ to find you like that? Half-dead, barely breathing? Christ, doll, what the hell do you expect me to say?”

You winced at his tone, but you knew he was right. That didn’t mean you were going to back down. “I didn’t ask you to come looking for me.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, princess,” he bit out, and your face flushed hot in humiliation from his condescending tone. “I _wasn’t_ looking for you. I went for a walk to clear my head, and—” Then he cut himself off with an irritated sigh and told you, “Forget it. I’m taking you back to medical.”

When his flesh hand latched around your upper arm, you snarled, “No, you aren’t.”

But you couldn’t break free. This was _him_. Bucky Barnes. Your worst enemy.

Right?

So you planted your feet firmly, instead, but that didn’t work either. A simple tug from him was all it took to get you moving.

“Let me go,” you demanded. “Let me the fuck go, Barnes, or I’ll—”

The rest of your threat died in your throat when Bucky shot you another look.

“Or you’ll what? Hurt me? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

You swallowed hard. He’d finally called you out on your empty threats – threats you’d been throwing his way for months. You’d always known that there wouldn’t have been a single thing you could do against him in a fight, not really, but neither of you had actually addressed that elephant in the room until now.

“Now move,” Bucky ordered, “Or I’ll make you move.”

“I’m not going anywhere with—”

A strangled yelp marked the end of your sentence when he hoisted you over his shoulder so quickly, it gave you vertigo. 

This wasn’t right. He couldn’t just manhandle you like this. You had _rights_.

But with his vibranium arm hooked behind your knees, you were trapped no matter how much you thrashed to break free. It wasn’t anger that propelled you now, but fear; he planned to take you to medical, where you’d be forced out of the field because of him. Forced out of the only thing that kept you going.

A string of insults escaped your lips, too many to count.

_Put me down, you dick._

_What the fuck is wrong with you?   
_

_How dare you put your hands on me!_

_You’re a real asshole, Barnes, you know that? _

_I trusted you. Why can’t you trust me?_

_I’ll get better, I promise. Just let me go. _

_Bucky, please. Don’t do this to me._

You felt him tense up just a little at your barrage of hate, of lies, of pleas, but he didn’t say a thing – just let you mouth off until you gave up. Predictably, within a minute or two, your struggles finally slowed to a stop. Body exhausted and soul just as much, you couldn’t put up a fight anymore even if you wanted to.

“Are you done?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The only sound for miles was the crunching of leaves under his boots, ground to dust just like any shred of comradery the two of you might have started to establish. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you stared blankly at the dirt path, feeling numb as can be. 

Bucky must have felt your shoulders shake with silent sobs, because he spoke soon after. “I don’t want to do this, but you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

A long pause.

A heavy sigh.

“You’re so much lighter than before. I’m worried about you.”

That caught you off guard, but you lashed out anyway. “I’m dead weight, remember? Why the hell do you care?”

Bucky seemed to consider your question before he admitted, “I did some research. Saw what’ll happen to you if you keep this up.”

You knew what would happen, too. You just didn’t care. Not anymore.

You may not have cared about yourself, but deep down, some part of you cared about him. You must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have confessed to him the things you’d kept under wraps for so long; otherwise his standoffishness this morning wouldn’t have bothered you like it did, so much that you ran yourself to the point of exhaustion to escape your anxious thoughts. 

You just didn’t know why you cared, and that bothered you the most.

For a fleeting moment, you wished that _this _was the dream – that you’d wake up from the calorie-obsessed horror that your life had become to those sweet, gentle whispers.

_Pretty girl. Sweetheart. _ _Wake up for me._


	5. Chapter 5

_Put me down, you dick._

Yeah, he deserved that.

_You’re a real asshole, Barnes, you know that?_

Bucky absolutely did know that, and yes, he deserved that, too. He deserved each and every insult you flung his way. He internalized them, naturally, but he just couldn’t sit by and watch you kill yourself. He wouldn’t, not when you scared the hell out of him like that, when he found you all alone in the middle of the woods, unconscious and unresponsive. Although it may not have been the first time he’d seen you that way, it was the second time he thought the worst – and he panicked.

Your skin felt so cold to the touch, too cold, too clammy. He could just barely hear your shallow breaths if he listened closely enough – but he somehow kept his own steady and even despite the panic. Somehow managed to calm himself, ground himself, with gentle pats to your cheek and soft, whispered words.

_Come on, pretty girl, wake up for me_.

Pretty. Gorgeous. Inside and out, he’d come to realize. Platonic admiration.

At first, anyway.

He’d long since shoved the idea out of his head because you weren’t well, and neither was he. Didn’t stop the words from slipping out sometimes, though. Didn’t stop the fleeting thoughts every now and then, either.

_Pretty girl. Sweetheart. Wake up for me._

No matter how sweetly Bucky tried to rouse you, however, you just wouldn’t wake, and it was all his fault. Again. He hadn’t had your six. _Again._

He’d gotten on your case for months about the very thing that you couldn’t handle – drove you to starve yourself, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d made some stupid, offhand comment about your weight. It was a joke meant to lighten the mood, but in all actuality his carelessness had contributed to your downward spiral, or maybe he’d just caused it outright.

Malnourished. Dark circles, chapped lips. Half-dead, barely breathing.

His fault. All his fault.

You scared the absolute hell out of him, and rightfully so.

His fault. Always.

For all his worth, however, Bucky couldn’t quite keep his emotions in check – not during such a long, tiring, emotionally exhausting day, and as a result, he lashed out. Of course he did. He lost his temper, and he shouldn’t have. Not this time.

It certainly had something to do with the therapy session he’d attended early in the morning, the one that set him on edge for the entire day. His therapist had dredged up a hell of a lot of memories that he didn’t want to think about. Not today. Not ever. Memories about the war had been playing on a loop inside his head for hours – dark, grim, bloody memories where he’d seen at least half the men in his platoon meet their untimely deaths. Friends of his, left without a proper burial. And Italy – Italy was worse. Italy was where he’d been forced to sit by and watch even more die.

Just like now. Just like this.

Here you were, killing yourself, and all he could do was watch.

He couldn’t let that happen, and not just because he felt guilty. No, you were broken, too. Broken just like him. Two jagged pieces of glass – easily shattered, a total mess – and Bucky had found some solace in that, some comradery. If he didn’t know better, he would have called you a friend, but it wasn’t like he’d ever confided his secrets to you. Only the opposite. You’d confided in him. You’d _trusted_ him.

Not anymore, you didn’t.

The first jab would have been when he brushed you off first thing. You’d trusted him last night, but he’d been too caught up in his own head this morning to know how to act, how to treat you – and then he found you like that, unconscious, and _that_ ended up like _this_. Small fists pounding against his back, and each weak blow felt like a dagger. Death by a thousand cuts. One for each of his mistakes.

Then the barrage began to slow, before it stopped altogether, and he knew you’d given up.

_Bucky, please. Don’t do this to me._

His stomach lurched at the beautifully broken syllables of his name. Quiet. Scared. _Bucky._

You’d only just started calling him that recently. For months, the two of you had well and truly hated each other. You’d always driven him up a fucking wall; still did sometimes, if he was being honest and although things had become somewhat amicable, he’d never been able to open up to you. Not really. Not like how you did with him.

Why was he so afraid to trust you?

The minutes passed in insufferable silence, save for the rustle of wind in the trees and the sharp crunch of autumn leaves under every footstep. Your body sagged against him, lifeless and unmoving. You’d stopped fighting, stopped arguing, stopped caring.

That was what made him realize that he’d only won the battle, not the war. Quiet contemplation. Temporary surrender. He could take you in, but you wouldn’t comply.

When Bucky spotted the compound in the distance, he hesitated, because he knew.

Why the hell was he so afraid to trust you?

You’d done nothing but be honest with him the entire time he’d known you. You’d never lied to him, never tried to act like your disorder was anything other than it was – had you? You did try to hide it, of course you did, and he couldn’t fault you for that. He hid his problems, too. Even from you.

But relationships were a two-way street, and something had to give.

As he set you back down on your feet, his fingertips dug into your shoulders, gentle but firm. He used his grip to hold you steady because he was afraid to let go – afraid to _trust_ you, trust that you’d be alright. He didn’t feel confident about it at all, but he let you go.

“What, aren’t you condemning me to hell?” you spat, like pure acid, but your voice sounded weak from crying. It bothered him more than it should have, and the dried tears on your cheeks made him feel even worse.

His fault.

“You’re just gonna fight some more if I take you in.” A statement, not a question. Level and even. “No sense in forcing you into treatment if you don’t care.”

At that, he caught a spark of recognition in your eyes but it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by righteous indignation and a frown. The moment his hands dropped back to his sides, he might have expected you to immediately turn heel and leave, maybe even run, but you didn’t. Instead, you just crossed your arms.

“No shit, Barnes. What tipped you off?”

Not ‘Bucky’ anymore.

He had to trust you. He had to give.

“It’s just…” This time he sounded a little more unsure, not at all like his calm, controlled demeanour whilst carrying you like a sack of potatoes. “If someone forced me into therapy a year ago, I don’t think I would have gone along with it.”

The implication was clear: you wouldn’t either_._

That was when the sharp edge to your features started to soften, and when you spoke again, your voice was softer, too, even if it did still have some bite to it. “What changed your mind?”

“I think I wanted to move on.”

Honesty.

“And have you?”

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, already feeling defensive and out of his element because he knew the answer was ‘no’. He may have worked through some things with his therapist, but he’d never be able to move on. Not really.

Your derisive snort set him off in an instant. Mocking. Spiteful, and Bucky’s eyes snapped back to you. Here he was, opening up a little, trying to make amends, doing the _best he fucking could_ and you thought it was _funny_—

But then he saw the smile on your lips, and those bitter words caught in his throat. You were smiling a little, smiling at him – a genuine smile, full of tears and empathy and care.

Pretty girl. Broken just like him.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” you croaked, hastily rubbing fresh tears away with the heel of your hand. The flush that came over your face made his heart stutter in his chest; not only were you right, but you were embarrassed about it. Why?

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, reaching up to pull your hand away. “Shit, I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

His fault. Always.

You sniffled, small fingers lacing through larger vibranium like it was the most natural thing in the world. So small, so delicate, so god damned _fragile_—

A sob escaped you, followed by a choked, “I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m so sorry.”

_Bucky._

Something broke inside of him, then, because his body reacted before his mind could catch up. Bucky let your hand go in favour of pulling you forward into his arms – cradled your cheek to his chest, and he soon discovered that you weren’t ice cold, not anymore. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry about.”

“But you— you keep helping me and I don’t deserve it, not after being so— so—”

He felt your shoulders shake with every sob, and his stomach twisted into knots.

“That doesn’t matter,” Bucky told you softly, stroking your hair. Hot tears soaked through his t-shirt – his fault, always his fault, but this time he pushed the blame away to focus solely on you. “Shh, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, you buried your face in his chest and cried – a real, proper cry,ugly and uncontrollable, just like last night. Smeared makeup and mascara likely left stains, but neither of you cared. Not with him holding you so close.

Warm. So warm. So right.

“I— I don’t wanna die,” came your hushed voice, muffled by his warmth, barely audible. “I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

“I know, pretty girl,” he whispered into your hair. “We'll figure it out. Everything's gonna be okay.”

And for the first time, Bucky believed it, too.<strike></strike>


End file.
